| His name’s, Doom
|
| They wonder just who is he But don’t wor. |
| ry,
|
| Believe me he’ll get busy
|
| When it comes, to poetry he’s got plenty
|
| La la lahhhhhh… la la la la lah
|
| Jump 'em in like jump rope, double dutch
|
| Then turn on the mic with a thumb stroke, subtle touch
|
| Cuddle clutch, is this thing on?
|
| Like the fling with Mrs. King Kong, this spring gone?
|
| Sing a song of slaphappy crappiness
|
| He came to blow like it was strapped to his nappy chest
|
| Surely I jest, the best on a wireless mic
|
| Not an eye test, yet I di-gress
|
| But why stress? |
| Try and remember when
|
| Maybe bit the tender skin-ned babysitter Gwendolyn
|
| The type to hit and run and go tell a friend
|
| Word to El Muerto cucaracha exoskeleton
|
| He know, flow like interstellar wind
|
| Tow a rap djinn by his toe into hell again
|
| One two, check me too
|
| Loose wreck see through your gooseneck EQ
|
| Aiy! |
| If I may interject
|
| Rap these days is like a pain up in the neck
|
| Cornier and phonier than a play fight
|
| Take two of these and don’t phone me on the late night
|
| … the beat won’t fail me With more rhymes than times he washed his hands and feet daily
|
| And all that kerosene ain’t cheap
|
| Villain been deep since a teenage creep
|
| Peep — he always was a gentleman
|
| And kept the pen and a pencil in his mental den
|
| Right there next to where the Rolodex was
|
| Before it turned up all burnt by his solar plexus
|
| He don’t know his own strength
|
| When he’s on the bone it’s like the microphone’s length
|
| and width, ain’t it funky like dingy socks?
|
| Feel the full effect off cassette in your Benzie Box |